fiction: Sherlock and the Angry Inch 2/2
Title: Sherlock and the Angry Inch
Writer: fanbot
Warnings: Physical deformity, slash. No spoilers.
Words 6,280 complete
Rated R -adult
I don’t own anything. Well, noting worth taking.
Summary: Why does Sherlock have no interest in sex? John finds out.
Betaed by the awesome c_woodhaven. Hugs! Any new mistakes are mine.
John threw himself into his work, hoping to stay busy so he would not think about Sherlock waiting for him to explain. When the clinic closed, he stayed over, catching up on paperwork and logging a few over time hours. Then he walked toward home, stopped at a pub for a sandwich and a few pints, and unsuccessfully chatted up a couple of women. After all, it was Friday and he could have some fun.
He came home late to an empty flat. John wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or worried. He checked his phone as he had constantly all day. It was fully charged, on-line and yet no texts from Sherlock. Right. He’d check the flat then go into worry mode.
He didn’t have far to look. On the kitchen table were two dozen replacement doughnuts and a note on a green square.
I am in France - had these delivered. If any are missing, I told Mrs. Hudson she could have some as a delivery fee.
-SH
John dropped into a chair and stared at the note. It was like Sherlock and yet not. He had dashed off on cases before, but he’d always told John. Then again, he was telling him now. Of course there was no apology, yet he had clearly taken time before heading out on a case to make amends. Unless he had ordered them then gotten a call. That was the more logical answer.
His worry now was that Sherlock had figured out why he was such a mood and how did Sherlock feel about it.
John trudged upstairs, took a quick shower and fell into bed. He was just drifting off when his phone sounded. He debated not answering it, but gave in after the fourth text.
I need you to look something up. SH
Bartlett’s Guide To Fungus - chapter 4 - word 67
Shelf by kitchen 3 down 2 over
green spine
John stared at the glowing screen. It went off again.
Look now, talk later.
With a sigh, John left his warm bed and went downstairs. He found the musty old tome (published 1879 so probably not on the internet he noticed) and texted the Latin fungus name to Sherlock as exactly as he could. He put the book back on the shelf, hesitated, then took it upstairs with him.
He settled into bed and lay staring at the ceiling. His phone went off again.
Put the book back -we’re good. SH
We’re good? We’re good we solved the case or we’re good in our relationship? John thought.
His phone sounded.
Just go to sleep John.
John shook his head, amused at Sherlock’s “psychic” reading.
“Good night, Sherlock. Have a safe trip back.”
While his messy flat mate was away, John took on a spring cleaning of their rooms. He started in his bedroom, opening the windows wide and letting in the first not- freezing air of the season. He scrubbed down the upstairs half bathroom, then the downstairs bath.
He texted Sherlock.
Any active experiments in kitchen? -J
Fifteen minutes later his answer came.
None. Have fun cleaning. Stay out from under my bed. SH
He started to text back and ask Sherlock how he knew he was cleaning, but decided not to bother. Encouraged by this, but being cautious nonetheless, John went through the cabinets, pulling out old, lost packets of food, organizing the plates and plastics, and wiping down all the shelves.
In the living room, he listened to the bustle of Baker Street through the open windows as he ate lunch. This shared room was problematical. He studied Sherlock’s newspaper and correspondence piles.
A text arrived.
DO NOT touch my piles in the living room. SH
Watson almost choked on his sandwich.
Are you really in France? -J
Of course. SH
Not spying? -J
I know you. SH
John looked out the window into the building across the way and peered around for hidden cameras just in case before finishing his lunch.
Another text.
Change sheets, but otherwise leave my room alone SH
I’m your flatmate, not your housekeeper. -J
John smiled at his paraphrase of their landlady.
You are the one cleaning every inch of the place. SH
Someone has to- J
Isn’t the phrase “you will make some one a lovely wife?” SH
Why did I turn you onto crap TV? You’re chatty today -J
Bored. SH
Waiting for the next event to unfold? -J
No answer came, it was too obvious.
John remembered his sheets were in the washer downstairs, so he went to take Sherlock’s sheets next.
John rarely went in Sherlock’s bedroom. Unless ordered by the taciturn detective, he respected the other man’s privacy. Unlike Sherlock who barged into his room for any reason he deemed important.
By the state in which he kept the living room, one would expect the bedroom to be worse, but it was not. Only the surface of the desk and the bedside table showed clutter, including several empty teacups, spoons, and the remains of snacks on dishes and wrappers.
The room was darkly paneled and contained a large bed, a desk, a couple of boxes of neatly stacked and labeled boxes, and two large wardrobes. John knew one contained his collection of disguise pieces. John had made the mistake of calling them costumes only once. The bed was a queen sized four poster. His landlady had explained to him it had been hers, but after the betrayal of her husband, she no longer wanted it. Plus the addition of “partly furnished” added to the appeal of a rental flat. Apart from a few pieces of technology, the overall effect was something out of a Victorian novel.
The covers had been tossed into place, not neatly made. John folded back the down comforter.
Sherlock’s taste in linens was no less meticulous than in his clothes. The cotton was of the highest possible thread count. They were almost silky under John’s fingers. The sheets were a dark Moroccan blue; bright, yet muted at the same time. John had a sudden, vivid image of Sherlock laying in bed with his hair fanned around his head, and his pale blue eyes shining.
No. That was what he’d be trying to avoid. John turned away, and closed his eyes. If he didn’t change the sheets, Sherlock would know why. If he did, John would then know Sherlock’s scent better and touch where his naked body had lain.
“Oh God,” John moaned out loud. “I’m doomed no matter what.” He wrestled with his inner demon for a full five minutes before returning to the bed.
He picked up Sherlock’s pillow and brought it to his face. He breathed in the scent that was particular to Sherlock. His cock hardened. He let himself picture Sherlock naked on the blue sheets, his body a pale spill. He imagined Sherlock’s cock hardening and moaned into the pillow. He most wanted to throw himself onto the sheets and rut against them until he came, but he feared staining the fine cotton or leaving any evidence that Sherlock might pick up on.
John clutched the pillow to his face with one arm and slipped his other hand into his loose pants. A few strokes was all it took when faced with a fantasy long denied.
John pulled himself together, changed his pants, and threw himself back into housework. The confrontation would have to happen now.
Sunday Sherlock exchanged a few noncommittal texts with John, including an order (anyone else would have tacked on a “please” making it a request) for him to text the exact words “the kat is out of the bog” to a particular number at exactly 8 pm on Saturday. John did so without questioning. It was clear Sherlock was hot on the case.
John arrived home from work on Monday to find Sherlock crouched in a chair making snide comments to the television. The living room was a wreck. It looked like Sherlock’s suitcase had exploded. A takeout container sat on the table with the remains of dinner around it. Two tea cups sat on the mantle. The battlefield of Sherlock’s confrontation with his mail and the weekend’s newspapers lay around his chair.
“I see you came home and made the place comfortable,” John said.
“Humm? Yes. I unpacked.”
John prodded a pile of clothes with a toe. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to unpack right into the washing machine?” He snapped.
Sherlock picked up the remote, turned off the television, and faced John. “I think we need to talk.”
John coughed and looked away. “What’s in the box?” he asked, indicating a package labeled with travel tags on the table.
“Gift basket. I wouldn’t have bothered, but last time I mentioned one to Mrs. Hudson, she berated me for a month. She gets the chocolates, we will share the wine, and I believe you will appreciate the cheese. Now talk to me, John.” Sherlock shifted to the couch and pointed to the seat beside him.
“So the case was successful? Lots of ciphers?”
“Yes. Diplomats and governments. You will be happy to know a large check is being deposited in my account. Now talk to me.”
John sighed and sat down on the edge of the seat. “You already know,” he said, looking at his hands.
“Most of it, yes. You are attracted to me, or at least aroused by the thought of me. I don’t mind, but it is effecting the peace of our flat, which is something I treasure.”
“You normally call peace boring,” John joked.
Sherlock let out a huff, “Perhaps I rail against the boredom, but having a baseline situation is invaluable.” John looked at him in surprise. “No flat share has worked out before. No one else will put up with me.” John could see what this admission cost his friend. “I do not want our… partnership to end over something left unsaid.”
John nodded, sat back on the couch and looked out the window without seeing the sunny day.
“I am attracted to men. Some men, not all. I have done a bit of experimenting and do like to watch. But I hold an irrational abhorrence of being entered. I have no problem having sex with another man, but the idea of being bottom puts me off entirely.”
“Don’t many relationships have a clearly drawn line of top and bottom?” Sherlock observed.
“That’s fine for casual encounters, I suppose, but in a relationship it would come up.”
“You’d feel guilty not giving your partner whatever he wanted, so you avoid the situation entirely,” Sherlock murmured.
John’s head jerked around. It was strange to hear something he’d struggled with for so long worded so cleanly.
“And I am no threat,” Sherlock continued.
John looked away, his cheeks flushing.
“Don’t be upset, John. I’m not insulted in the least. Mind you, I have been insulted in the past, but I trust you.” He leaned forward and lightly touched John’s knee. “I will consider your offer.”
“Did I make an offer?”
“You want to indulge in your attraction to me, which you cannot deny you felt strongly when we first met, shelved after our conversation at the restaurant, and which has flared up since you’ve learned my secret. Also you see a challenge. You think perhaps you can being me some sexual pleasure.”
John rubbed his knee. “I hold no claims to being a sex god.”
“No, but you are a caring and attentive man. I suspect you turn full attention to your partner’s needs.”
John blushed. Sherlock could see the instant John committed himself to going to bed with him.
“It would… change the dynamic between us, “ John blurted.
“I know. And it is a risk.” Sherlock leaned back and steepled his fingers. “While there may be some pleasure to be gained, I can book no guarantees I could ever provide you with the emotional platform you require, or that the encounter would ever be replicated.”
“No hearts and flowers from you,” John said with a half smile.
“No. I’m not that sort.”
“And there is a risk you would use me to your advantage,” John said, pointing out he was not the only flawed one in the mix. “At your beck and call when bored.”
“Don’t I already?”
John laughed. “Yes. Yes you do. And while I would not be ashamed, I have no desire to be part of the rumor mill at Scotland Yard. I will not have you bring up details of our private life in the heat of a case!”
Sherlock nodded. “Hummm. I will endeavor my best to keep our privates private. After all, I have had years of practice with my own.”
“I know Mycroft will find out.”
“I’m sure he already knows,” Sherlock said. John nodded in agreement.
A silence fell in Baker Street as the two men contemplated the turn of events.
“So… are we going to do this?” John ventured after a while.
“Not now,” Sherlock said. “The atmosphere is much like we have negotiated a contract. The terms are aired, let us leave the topic for now and see how things progress. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” John was glad to have the ground rules set. Now he just had to live with anticipation. Or was it dread? Perhaps a bit of both.
Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom and came out with a half full laundry bag. He scooped up the pile on the floor, added it to the bag and set it aside. He flopped back down on the couch as he pulled out his phone and tapped in a number and a message.
“Why do you use a service, Sherlock? There is a perfectly serviceable machine downstairs.”
“While I respect your thriftiness, I find the mundane exercise of laundry boring beyond words. Besides, I do not like the smell the water on Baker Street leaves. Go ahead and break open the box. You can deliver the chocolates to Mrs. Hudson when you take the laundry downstairs to the currier. We can have the wine with dinner.”
John cut open the box and started pulling items out. He was reading the label of the quality wine when he stopped, cocked his head and put the bottle on the table. He looked over to find Sherlock watching him.
“There it is,” his flatmate smiled. “I had you wash my sheets to give you an excuse to go in my room. No harm is done. One professional washing and they will be tolerable again. I will even let you remake my bed with tight military precision if you wish.”
John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock held up a hand. “Ever since you saw me naked, you have been uneasy and avoiding my presence more and more. I speculated that if you had an encounter with my bed, you would… let off some pressure.”
“Sherlock, you are nothing if not complicated. What shall we order for dinner? Italian would go well with this.”
On Thursday John came home after a tedious day at work and an over-long underground trip home. It was fine for Sherlock to take taxis everywhere, but he simply could not afford it.
He was greeted by Sherlock who was wearing his blue pajamas and bathrobe.
“John, let’s do this now.”
“Now? Do what?” His flatmate cocked an eyebrow. John sighed, “Sherlock, I just got off work, I’m hungry and I want a shower.”
Sherlock nodded. “There is Chinese keeping warm in the oven. Have your shower, eat your dinner. I will be in my room. Come in when you are ready.” He turned to go.
“Wait,” John said. “Why are you doing this? I didn’t think you were interested on more than a clinical level, yet now you’re pushing it.”
“I do have some curiosity, John,” Sherlock said over his shoulder. “You have caused me to consider possibilities long put aside.” He paused. “Or maybe I’m bored,” he added with his wry humor.
John showered, hesitated over what to wear, then put on his lay-about-the-house sweats and ate dinner. He heard nothing from Sherlock the whole time. He was excited yet anxious. What if he failed to please Sherlock? What if… John shook himself. He’d come this far, he wasn’t going to back out now.
He straightened his back and practically marched to Sherlock’s door. He knocked softly, and receiving no answer he figured Sherlock had fallen asleep.
The only light in the room was the bedside lamp. John could not believe what he was seeing. Sherlock Holmes lay naked upon dark blue sheets. The top sheet lay across his legs just below his hip bones, covering his privates. He looked was just as he’d imagined, pale and long limbed, but a scarf was tied over his eyes and another around his mouth. One hand was on the pillow by his head.
Sherlock turned his head toward him. The prone man shifted his foot and called attention to a note on the bed.
This is the best way to approach this. You can not be distracted if I am watching you nor can I critique and ruin the mood as I am want to do. You may do with me as you will. If I disapprove, I will stop you. If I approve, I will indicate so.
I trust you.
John blinked and looked at the rest of the scene. The bedside table had been cleared off. A still life of lube, condoms, several small hand towels and two bottles of water was presented on the bedside table.
“Sherlock,” John breathed, not believing. He hesitated.
Sherlock held out his hand and took John’s when he put his in it. Gently but firmly Sherlock drew him down, placed John’s hand on his chest, and released it.
“Okay,” John whispered. “Yes.” It was strange, probably high on the kinky scale, but Sherlock was right. With Sherlock’s self-enforced silence and blindness, John could be free to look and touch as much as he wished. He glanced again at the bedside still life. He thought they both knew John has no intention of entering him today, but the message was clear; utter and complete trust.
He ran his hands over Sherlock’s smooth skin. “So lovely, so lean. My type,” John murmured, “but I guess you know that, Holmes.” He appreciated the lean muscles while the clinical side of his mind wished Sherlock would eat a little more. Sherlock lay still.
He picked up Sherlock’s hand, stroking the long fingers. He turned it over and kissed Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock curled his hand and cupped John’s cheek approvingly.
John kissed some more, adding a little lick to the center of his palm. He moved down, applying little touches and caresses of various kinds in sensitive places. He reached his shoulder, hesitated and moved to lay down beside the other man.
The hand he’d been kissing grabbed the fabric of his pants and tugged at it. “Want me naked, too?” Sherlock nodded. “Okay.”
He stripped down, glad Sherlock could not see him. His army-ready tone had faded lately. He lay beside and half on Sherlock. He kissed and nibbled at Sherlock’s long neck. His partner let out a sigh and turned his head to allow better access. John smiled and experimentally took little cat licks at the underside of Sherlock’s chin.
Sherlock hummed his approval. John became aware that he was languidly moving his hips to rub the tip of his hard cock against Sherlock’s leg. He started to shift away, but Sherlock wrapped his arm around John and kept him in place.
Oddly enough, being embraced by Sherlock was the strangest feeling part of this so far. Strange, but nice. Sherlock lightly ran his thumb over John’s side.
Encouraged, John started working his way down. He kissed the collar bone he’d so often noticed peeking from Sherlock’s fine shirts. He licked the hollow at the base of Sherlock’s throat, wondering what it would taste like when he wasn’t fresh from the shower. John moaned softly at his own thoughts.
The hair on Sherlock’s chest was dark and even in a T shape. He’d already seen that Sherlock shaved around his penis, yet left his sack covered in dark curls. John carded his fingers through it and found one of the pink nipples. John licked at it, provoking an impatient sigh and a shifting. “No?” John murmured. “How about this?”
The good doctor nipped sharply at the nub inducing a hiss and an arching from Sherlock. “I thought you might like it a little rough.”
He worked his way down, stroking Sherlock’s lean belly, then propped himself up beside Sherlock’s hips and pulled the sheet aside. He admired the lean muscles in the detective’s long legs, casually noticing the occasional scar.
Sherlock shifted and open his legs a little more.
“Impatient are we? Very well.”
John had given oral sex to men twice before, not unsuccessfully. His theory was to do to others what he liked to feel himself. This circumstance was a bit different. Even erect as Sherlock clearly was now his penis was only about and inch and a half long.
He decided to approach it as he would pleasuring a woman. He gave little licks to Sherlock, cupping his balls, pressing his perineum. His actions left Sherlock moaning and bucking, he put his hand on John’s shoulder approvingly.
Finally, John sealed his lips around him, licking, licking. Sucking and running his lips up and down. He felt Sherlock’s balls start to draw up when the man tugged at him. He knew his partner was close, but respected the action and raised his head.
“What is it, Holmes?”
Sherlock reached to the bedside table and unerringly grabbed the tube of lube. He flicked open the lid with a deft movement and squeezed out a line of lube around his penis. Then he pulled at Watson, guiding him with little tugs and pushes until the shorter man was on top of him. John’s legs straddled Sherlock’s groin and his sack rested upon Sherlock’s.
Sherlock made a needy sound and pulled John down so they were chest to chest. He pressed John’s head onto his neck and with the other hand encouraged the thrusting John automatically started. John wondered a minute at the physics of it. It was an odd but not unpleasant feeling being the one with his legs spread in this position, his legs stretched out beside Sherlock’s and his full weight on him. His hard shaft was trapped between them and was rubbing against Sherlock’s hard nub, occasionally bumping into it and jolting them both slightly. The lube was everywhere and just delightful.
Sherlock lightly slapped his buttock as if to focus him.
“Sorry, Holmes,” John nipped at Sherlock’s neck, somewhat sharper than before and gave in to his body’s urge to rut and to come. It was not long before his hard rhythm stuttered and he climaxed, moaning softly into the dark curls at Sherlock’s neck.
He felt Sherlock go still under him and John kept moving even though his over-sensitized cock wanted him to stop. Positioned as he was, John could feel Sherlock’s whole body shudder and his hips jerk upwards. John found himself disappointed that the added moisture from Sherlock’s orgasm was lost in the lube.
They lay still until their breath evened out and Sherlock gave John a little shove. He sat up on the edge of the bed and picked up a bottle of water.
“Take off your bindings, Holmes. It’s starting to get weird.”
Sherlock pulled off the scarves and smiled. “Starting to?”
John laughed. “Yes. I mean, you don’t want to go kinky too quickly. It’s good to keep options.”
“Hummm,” Sherlock purred and stretched. “I don’t remember agreeing to do it again.”
“You just purred, Holmes. I think we’ll do it again.” He handed the other bottle to Sherlock.
“You keep calling me Holmes,” his now lover observed. “An interesting separation. Does that mean I have to call you Watson while intimate?”
“I had to distance myself somehow. Otherwise I would have jumped you a month ago.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Pull up the covers, Watson. I believe a nap and then a second round of negotiations are in order.”
You may have already read the follow up story "Of Beds and Borders"
Sorry for the small size and weird fonts. damn cut and paste messes up every time.
Forgive me if I BEG for even a word of feedback. I've not written in a long time and feedback will tell me if I've still got it.
Net part: Restless
Writer: fanbot
Warnings: Physical deformity, slash. No spoilers.
Words 6,280 complete
Rated R -adult
I don’t own anything. Well, noting worth taking.
Summary: Why does Sherlock have no interest in sex? John finds out.
Betaed by the awesome c_woodhaven. Hugs! Any new mistakes are mine.
John threw himself into his work, hoping to stay busy so he would not think about Sherlock waiting for him to explain. When the clinic closed, he stayed over, catching up on paperwork and logging a few over time hours. Then he walked toward home, stopped at a pub for a sandwich and a few pints, and unsuccessfully chatted up a couple of women. After all, it was Friday and he could have some fun.
He came home late to an empty flat. John wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or worried. He checked his phone as he had constantly all day. It was fully charged, on-line and yet no texts from Sherlock. Right. He’d check the flat then go into worry mode.
He didn’t have far to look. On the kitchen table were two dozen replacement doughnuts and a note on a green square.
I am in France - had these delivered. If any are missing, I told Mrs. Hudson she could have some as a delivery fee.
-SH
John dropped into a chair and stared at the note. It was like Sherlock and yet not. He had dashed off on cases before, but he’d always told John. Then again, he was telling him now. Of course there was no apology, yet he had clearly taken time before heading out on a case to make amends. Unless he had ordered them then gotten a call. That was the more logical answer.
His worry now was that Sherlock had figured out why he was such a mood and how did Sherlock feel about it.
John trudged upstairs, took a quick shower and fell into bed. He was just drifting off when his phone sounded. He debated not answering it, but gave in after the fourth text.
I need you to look something up. SH
Bartlett’s Guide To Fungus - chapter 4 - word 67
Shelf by kitchen 3 down 2 over
green spine
John stared at the glowing screen. It went off again.
Look now, talk later.
With a sigh, John left his warm bed and went downstairs. He found the musty old tome (published 1879 so probably not on the internet he noticed) and texted the Latin fungus name to Sherlock as exactly as he could. He put the book back on the shelf, hesitated, then took it upstairs with him.
He settled into bed and lay staring at the ceiling. His phone went off again.
Put the book back -we’re good. SH
We’re good? We’re good we solved the case or we’re good in our relationship? John thought.
His phone sounded.
Just go to sleep John.
John shook his head, amused at Sherlock’s “psychic” reading.
“Good night, Sherlock. Have a safe trip back.”
While his messy flat mate was away, John took on a spring cleaning of their rooms. He started in his bedroom, opening the windows wide and letting in the first not- freezing air of the season. He scrubbed down the upstairs half bathroom, then the downstairs bath.
He texted Sherlock.
Any active experiments in kitchen? -J
Fifteen minutes later his answer came.
None. Have fun cleaning. Stay out from under my bed. SH
He started to text back and ask Sherlock how he knew he was cleaning, but decided not to bother. Encouraged by this, but being cautious nonetheless, John went through the cabinets, pulling out old, lost packets of food, organizing the plates and plastics, and wiping down all the shelves.
In the living room, he listened to the bustle of Baker Street through the open windows as he ate lunch. This shared room was problematical. He studied Sherlock’s newspaper and correspondence piles.
A text arrived.
DO NOT touch my piles in the living room. SH
Watson almost choked on his sandwich.
Are you really in France? -J
Of course. SH
Not spying? -J
I know you. SH
John looked out the window into the building across the way and peered around for hidden cameras just in case before finishing his lunch.
Another text.
Change sheets, but otherwise leave my room alone SH
I’m your flatmate, not your housekeeper. -J
John smiled at his paraphrase of their landlady.
You are the one cleaning every inch of the place. SH
Someone has to- J
Isn’t the phrase “you will make some one a lovely wife?” SH
Why did I turn you onto crap TV? You’re chatty today -J
Bored. SH
Waiting for the next event to unfold? -J
No answer came, it was too obvious.
John remembered his sheets were in the washer downstairs, so he went to take Sherlock’s sheets next.
John rarely went in Sherlock’s bedroom. Unless ordered by the taciturn detective, he respected the other man’s privacy. Unlike Sherlock who barged into his room for any reason he deemed important.
By the state in which he kept the living room, one would expect the bedroom to be worse, but it was not. Only the surface of the desk and the bedside table showed clutter, including several empty teacups, spoons, and the remains of snacks on dishes and wrappers.
The room was darkly paneled and contained a large bed, a desk, a couple of boxes of neatly stacked and labeled boxes, and two large wardrobes. John knew one contained his collection of disguise pieces. John had made the mistake of calling them costumes only once. The bed was a queen sized four poster. His landlady had explained to him it had been hers, but after the betrayal of her husband, she no longer wanted it. Plus the addition of “partly furnished” added to the appeal of a rental flat. Apart from a few pieces of technology, the overall effect was something out of a Victorian novel.
The covers had been tossed into place, not neatly made. John folded back the down comforter.
Sherlock’s taste in linens was no less meticulous than in his clothes. The cotton was of the highest possible thread count. They were almost silky under John’s fingers. The sheets were a dark Moroccan blue; bright, yet muted at the same time. John had a sudden, vivid image of Sherlock laying in bed with his hair fanned around his head, and his pale blue eyes shining.
No. That was what he’d be trying to avoid. John turned away, and closed his eyes. If he didn’t change the sheets, Sherlock would know why. If he did, John would then know Sherlock’s scent better and touch where his naked body had lain.
“Oh God,” John moaned out loud. “I’m doomed no matter what.” He wrestled with his inner demon for a full five minutes before returning to the bed.
He picked up Sherlock’s pillow and brought it to his face. He breathed in the scent that was particular to Sherlock. His cock hardened. He let himself picture Sherlock naked on the blue sheets, his body a pale spill. He imagined Sherlock’s cock hardening and moaned into the pillow. He most wanted to throw himself onto the sheets and rut against them until he came, but he feared staining the fine cotton or leaving any evidence that Sherlock might pick up on.
John clutched the pillow to his face with one arm and slipped his other hand into his loose pants. A few strokes was all it took when faced with a fantasy long denied.
John pulled himself together, changed his pants, and threw himself back into housework. The confrontation would have to happen now.
Sunday Sherlock exchanged a few noncommittal texts with John, including an order (anyone else would have tacked on a “please” making it a request) for him to text the exact words “the kat is out of the bog” to a particular number at exactly 8 pm on Saturday. John did so without questioning. It was clear Sherlock was hot on the case.
John arrived home from work on Monday to find Sherlock crouched in a chair making snide comments to the television. The living room was a wreck. It looked like Sherlock’s suitcase had exploded. A takeout container sat on the table with the remains of dinner around it. Two tea cups sat on the mantle. The battlefield of Sherlock’s confrontation with his mail and the weekend’s newspapers lay around his chair.
“I see you came home and made the place comfortable,” John said.
“Humm? Yes. I unpacked.”
John prodded a pile of clothes with a toe. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to unpack right into the washing machine?” He snapped.
Sherlock picked up the remote, turned off the television, and faced John. “I think we need to talk.”
John coughed and looked away. “What’s in the box?” he asked, indicating a package labeled with travel tags on the table.
“Gift basket. I wouldn’t have bothered, but last time I mentioned one to Mrs. Hudson, she berated me for a month. She gets the chocolates, we will share the wine, and I believe you will appreciate the cheese. Now talk to me, John.” Sherlock shifted to the couch and pointed to the seat beside him.
“So the case was successful? Lots of ciphers?”
“Yes. Diplomats and governments. You will be happy to know a large check is being deposited in my account. Now talk to me.”
John sighed and sat down on the edge of the seat. “You already know,” he said, looking at his hands.
“Most of it, yes. You are attracted to me, or at least aroused by the thought of me. I don’t mind, but it is effecting the peace of our flat, which is something I treasure.”
“You normally call peace boring,” John joked.
Sherlock let out a huff, “Perhaps I rail against the boredom, but having a baseline situation is invaluable.” John looked at him in surprise. “No flat share has worked out before. No one else will put up with me.” John could see what this admission cost his friend. “I do not want our… partnership to end over something left unsaid.”
John nodded, sat back on the couch and looked out the window without seeing the sunny day.
“I am attracted to men. Some men, not all. I have done a bit of experimenting and do like to watch. But I hold an irrational abhorrence of being entered. I have no problem having sex with another man, but the idea of being bottom puts me off entirely.”
“Don’t many relationships have a clearly drawn line of top and bottom?” Sherlock observed.
“That’s fine for casual encounters, I suppose, but in a relationship it would come up.”
“You’d feel guilty not giving your partner whatever he wanted, so you avoid the situation entirely,” Sherlock murmured.
John’s head jerked around. It was strange to hear something he’d struggled with for so long worded so cleanly.
“And I am no threat,” Sherlock continued.
John looked away, his cheeks flushing.
“Don’t be upset, John. I’m not insulted in the least. Mind you, I have been insulted in the past, but I trust you.” He leaned forward and lightly touched John’s knee. “I will consider your offer.”
“Did I make an offer?”
“You want to indulge in your attraction to me, which you cannot deny you felt strongly when we first met, shelved after our conversation at the restaurant, and which has flared up since you’ve learned my secret. Also you see a challenge. You think perhaps you can being me some sexual pleasure.”
John rubbed his knee. “I hold no claims to being a sex god.”
“No, but you are a caring and attentive man. I suspect you turn full attention to your partner’s needs.”
John blushed. Sherlock could see the instant John committed himself to going to bed with him.
“It would… change the dynamic between us, “ John blurted.
“I know. And it is a risk.” Sherlock leaned back and steepled his fingers. “While there may be some pleasure to be gained, I can book no guarantees I could ever provide you with the emotional platform you require, or that the encounter would ever be replicated.”
“No hearts and flowers from you,” John said with a half smile.
“No. I’m not that sort.”
“And there is a risk you would use me to your advantage,” John said, pointing out he was not the only flawed one in the mix. “At your beck and call when bored.”
“Don’t I already?”
John laughed. “Yes. Yes you do. And while I would not be ashamed, I have no desire to be part of the rumor mill at Scotland Yard. I will not have you bring up details of our private life in the heat of a case!”
Sherlock nodded. “Hummm. I will endeavor my best to keep our privates private. After all, I have had years of practice with my own.”
“I know Mycroft will find out.”
“I’m sure he already knows,” Sherlock said. John nodded in agreement.
A silence fell in Baker Street as the two men contemplated the turn of events.
“So… are we going to do this?” John ventured after a while.
“Not now,” Sherlock said. “The atmosphere is much like we have negotiated a contract. The terms are aired, let us leave the topic for now and see how things progress. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” John was glad to have the ground rules set. Now he just had to live with anticipation. Or was it dread? Perhaps a bit of both.
Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom and came out with a half full laundry bag. He scooped up the pile on the floor, added it to the bag and set it aside. He flopped back down on the couch as he pulled out his phone and tapped in a number and a message.
“Why do you use a service, Sherlock? There is a perfectly serviceable machine downstairs.”
“While I respect your thriftiness, I find the mundane exercise of laundry boring beyond words. Besides, I do not like the smell the water on Baker Street leaves. Go ahead and break open the box. You can deliver the chocolates to Mrs. Hudson when you take the laundry downstairs to the currier. We can have the wine with dinner.”
John cut open the box and started pulling items out. He was reading the label of the quality wine when he stopped, cocked his head and put the bottle on the table. He looked over to find Sherlock watching him.
“There it is,” his flatmate smiled. “I had you wash my sheets to give you an excuse to go in my room. No harm is done. One professional washing and they will be tolerable again. I will even let you remake my bed with tight military precision if you wish.”
John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock held up a hand. “Ever since you saw me naked, you have been uneasy and avoiding my presence more and more. I speculated that if you had an encounter with my bed, you would… let off some pressure.”
“Sherlock, you are nothing if not complicated. What shall we order for dinner? Italian would go well with this.”
On Thursday John came home after a tedious day at work and an over-long underground trip home. It was fine for Sherlock to take taxis everywhere, but he simply could not afford it.
He was greeted by Sherlock who was wearing his blue pajamas and bathrobe.
“John, let’s do this now.”
“Now? Do what?” His flatmate cocked an eyebrow. John sighed, “Sherlock, I just got off work, I’m hungry and I want a shower.”
Sherlock nodded. “There is Chinese keeping warm in the oven. Have your shower, eat your dinner. I will be in my room. Come in when you are ready.” He turned to go.
“Wait,” John said. “Why are you doing this? I didn’t think you were interested on more than a clinical level, yet now you’re pushing it.”
“I do have some curiosity, John,” Sherlock said over his shoulder. “You have caused me to consider possibilities long put aside.” He paused. “Or maybe I’m bored,” he added with his wry humor.
John showered, hesitated over what to wear, then put on his lay-about-the-house sweats and ate dinner. He heard nothing from Sherlock the whole time. He was excited yet anxious. What if he failed to please Sherlock? What if… John shook himself. He’d come this far, he wasn’t going to back out now.
He straightened his back and practically marched to Sherlock’s door. He knocked softly, and receiving no answer he figured Sherlock had fallen asleep.
The only light in the room was the bedside lamp. John could not believe what he was seeing. Sherlock Holmes lay naked upon dark blue sheets. The top sheet lay across his legs just below his hip bones, covering his privates. He looked was just as he’d imagined, pale and long limbed, but a scarf was tied over his eyes and another around his mouth. One hand was on the pillow by his head.
Sherlock turned his head toward him. The prone man shifted his foot and called attention to a note on the bed.
This is the best way to approach this. You can not be distracted if I am watching you nor can I critique and ruin the mood as I am want to do. You may do with me as you will. If I disapprove, I will stop you. If I approve, I will indicate so.
I trust you.
John blinked and looked at the rest of the scene. The bedside table had been cleared off. A still life of lube, condoms, several small hand towels and two bottles of water was presented on the bedside table.
“Sherlock,” John breathed, not believing. He hesitated.
Sherlock held out his hand and took John’s when he put his in it. Gently but firmly Sherlock drew him down, placed John’s hand on his chest, and released it.
“Okay,” John whispered. “Yes.” It was strange, probably high on the kinky scale, but Sherlock was right. With Sherlock’s self-enforced silence and blindness, John could be free to look and touch as much as he wished. He glanced again at the bedside still life. He thought they both knew John has no intention of entering him today, but the message was clear; utter and complete trust.
He ran his hands over Sherlock’s smooth skin. “So lovely, so lean. My type,” John murmured, “but I guess you know that, Holmes.” He appreciated the lean muscles while the clinical side of his mind wished Sherlock would eat a little more. Sherlock lay still.
He picked up Sherlock’s hand, stroking the long fingers. He turned it over and kissed Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock curled his hand and cupped John’s cheek approvingly.
John kissed some more, adding a little lick to the center of his palm. He moved down, applying little touches and caresses of various kinds in sensitive places. He reached his shoulder, hesitated and moved to lay down beside the other man.
The hand he’d been kissing grabbed the fabric of his pants and tugged at it. “Want me naked, too?” Sherlock nodded. “Okay.”
He stripped down, glad Sherlock could not see him. His army-ready tone had faded lately. He lay beside and half on Sherlock. He kissed and nibbled at Sherlock’s long neck. His partner let out a sigh and turned his head to allow better access. John smiled and experimentally took little cat licks at the underside of Sherlock’s chin.
Sherlock hummed his approval. John became aware that he was languidly moving his hips to rub the tip of his hard cock against Sherlock’s leg. He started to shift away, but Sherlock wrapped his arm around John and kept him in place.
Oddly enough, being embraced by Sherlock was the strangest feeling part of this so far. Strange, but nice. Sherlock lightly ran his thumb over John’s side.
Encouraged, John started working his way down. He kissed the collar bone he’d so often noticed peeking from Sherlock’s fine shirts. He licked the hollow at the base of Sherlock’s throat, wondering what it would taste like when he wasn’t fresh from the shower. John moaned softly at his own thoughts.
The hair on Sherlock’s chest was dark and even in a T shape. He’d already seen that Sherlock shaved around his penis, yet left his sack covered in dark curls. John carded his fingers through it and found one of the pink nipples. John licked at it, provoking an impatient sigh and a shifting. “No?” John murmured. “How about this?”
The good doctor nipped sharply at the nub inducing a hiss and an arching from Sherlock. “I thought you might like it a little rough.”
He worked his way down, stroking Sherlock’s lean belly, then propped himself up beside Sherlock’s hips and pulled the sheet aside. He admired the lean muscles in the detective’s long legs, casually noticing the occasional scar.
Sherlock shifted and open his legs a little more.
“Impatient are we? Very well.”
John had given oral sex to men twice before, not unsuccessfully. His theory was to do to others what he liked to feel himself. This circumstance was a bit different. Even erect as Sherlock clearly was now his penis was only about and inch and a half long.
He decided to approach it as he would pleasuring a woman. He gave little licks to Sherlock, cupping his balls, pressing his perineum. His actions left Sherlock moaning and bucking, he put his hand on John’s shoulder approvingly.
Finally, John sealed his lips around him, licking, licking. Sucking and running his lips up and down. He felt Sherlock’s balls start to draw up when the man tugged at him. He knew his partner was close, but respected the action and raised his head.
“What is it, Holmes?”
Sherlock reached to the bedside table and unerringly grabbed the tube of lube. He flicked open the lid with a deft movement and squeezed out a line of lube around his penis. Then he pulled at Watson, guiding him with little tugs and pushes until the shorter man was on top of him. John’s legs straddled Sherlock’s groin and his sack rested upon Sherlock’s.
Sherlock made a needy sound and pulled John down so they were chest to chest. He pressed John’s head onto his neck and with the other hand encouraged the thrusting John automatically started. John wondered a minute at the physics of it. It was an odd but not unpleasant feeling being the one with his legs spread in this position, his legs stretched out beside Sherlock’s and his full weight on him. His hard shaft was trapped between them and was rubbing against Sherlock’s hard nub, occasionally bumping into it and jolting them both slightly. The lube was everywhere and just delightful.
Sherlock lightly slapped his buttock as if to focus him.
“Sorry, Holmes,” John nipped at Sherlock’s neck, somewhat sharper than before and gave in to his body’s urge to rut and to come. It was not long before his hard rhythm stuttered and he climaxed, moaning softly into the dark curls at Sherlock’s neck.
He felt Sherlock go still under him and John kept moving even though his over-sensitized cock wanted him to stop. Positioned as he was, John could feel Sherlock’s whole body shudder and his hips jerk upwards. John found himself disappointed that the added moisture from Sherlock’s orgasm was lost in the lube.
They lay still until their breath evened out and Sherlock gave John a little shove. He sat up on the edge of the bed and picked up a bottle of water.
“Take off your bindings, Holmes. It’s starting to get weird.”
Sherlock pulled off the scarves and smiled. “Starting to?”
John laughed. “Yes. I mean, you don’t want to go kinky too quickly. It’s good to keep options.”
“Hummm,” Sherlock purred and stretched. “I don’t remember agreeing to do it again.”
“You just purred, Holmes. I think we’ll do it again.” He handed the other bottle to Sherlock.
“You keep calling me Holmes,” his now lover observed. “An interesting separation. Does that mean I have to call you Watson while intimate?”
“I had to distance myself somehow. Otherwise I would have jumped you a month ago.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Pull up the covers, Watson. I believe a nap and then a second round of negotiations are in order.”
You may have already read the follow up story "Of Beds and Borders"
Sorry for the small size and weird fonts. damn cut and paste messes up every time.
Forgive me if I BEG for even a word of feedback. I've not written in a long time and feedback will tell me if I've still got it.
Net part: Restless